The invisible line that is 66
If you would have told me years ago that I would, one day, be 66, I would have laughed.
I’m about to cross that line to 66, and I’m in the south of France. Let me say that again. I’m in the south of France. (July 2025)
Aren’t people supposed to be dead at that exhausted point in life? I remember when Uncle Noah died in his 70s. That was about right. He was old; therefore, it was expected and welcomed.
Today, I will not even consider the option of not being alive, because my 60s have been fabulous. Another fact that I would have scoffed at if you had told me years ago. “This will be your best decade,” said no one ever. But they should have let me know, because it is. The decade, that is.
I always believed there was a line coming head-first toward me the second my age rolled from 59 to 60. Indeed, the line appeared without fanfare or difficulty, so maybe I had escaped the bullet that swirled in my head. This week, I believe I have crossed another one, rolling from 65 to 66. The next one involves the number 7, which scares me, humbles me, unnerves me. If that even makes sense.
No bells and whistles this week, nor any expected in the foreseeable future. Maybe, again, I have escaped the bullet.
My days are filled with gratitude for being here, spending days on my mountaintop with Len, asking each other what day it is, enjoying our evening cocktails on the deck, loving on our three cats, sitting dockside at Margarita Jacks looking at the marvelous landscape that is our backyard, traveling the world to experience our favorite destinations . . . I’m sure there are more but for now, these shine.
Hopefully, the next line I cross will deliver the same.
